by Zane Grey
Sampson pounded hard on the table to be heard. Mayor or not, he was unable at once to quell the excitement.
Gradually, however, it subsided and from the last few utterances before quiet was restored I gathered that Steele had intruded upon some kind of a meeting in the hall.
“Steele, what’d you break in here for?” demanded Sampson.
“Isn’t this court? Aren’t you the mayor of Linrock?” interrogated Steele. His voice was so clear and loud, almost piercing, that I saw at once that he wanted all those outside to hear.
“Yes,” replied Sampson. Like flint he seemed, yet I felt his intense interest.
I had no doubt then that Steele intended to make him stand out before this crowd as the real mayor of Linrock or as a man whose office was a sham.
“I’ve arrested a criminal,” said Steele. “Bud Snell. I charge him with assault on Jim Hoden and attempted robbery—if not murder. Snell had a shady past here, as the court will know if it keeps a record.”
Then I saw Snell hunching down on a bench, a nerveless and shaken man if there ever was one. He had been a hanger-on round the gambling dens, the kind of sneak I never turned my back to.
Jim Hoden, the restaurant keeper, was present also, and on second glance I saw that he was pale. There was blood on his face. I knew Jim, liked him, had tried to make a friend of him.
I was not dead to the stinging interrogation in the concluding sentence of Steele’s speech. Then I felt sure I had correctly judged Steele’s motive. I began to warm to the situation.
“What’s this I hear about you, Bud? Get up and speak for yourself,” said Sampson, gruffly.
Snell got up, not without a furtive glance at Steele, and he had shuffled forward a few steps toward the mayor. He had an evil front, but not the boldness even of a rustler.
“It ain’t so, Sampson,” he began loudly. “I went in Hoden’s place fer grub. Some feller I never seen before come in from the hall an’ hit him an’ wrastled him on the floor. Then this big Ranger grabbed me an’ fetched me here. I didn’t do nothin’. This Ranger’s hankerin’ to arrest somebody. Thet’s my hunch, Sampson.”
“What have you to say about this, Hoden?” sharply queried Sampson. “I call to your mind the fact that you once testified falsely in court, and got punished for it.”
Why did my sharpened and experienced wits interpret a hint of threat or menace in Sampson’s reminder? Hoden rose from the bench and with an unsteady hand reached down to support himself.
He was no longer young, and he seemed broken in health and spirit. He had been hurt somewhat about the head.
“I haven’t much to say,” he replied. “The Ranger dragged me here. I told him I didn’t take my troubles to court. Besides, I can’t swear it was Snell who hit me.”
Sampson said something in an undertone to Judge Owens, and that worthy nodded his great, bushy head.
“Bud, you’re discharged,” said Sampson bluntly. “Now, the rest of you clear out of here.”
He absolutely ignored the Ranger. That was his rebuff to Steele’s advances, his slap in the face to an interfering Ranger Service.
If Sampson was crooked he certainly had magnificent nerve. I almost decided he was above suspicion. But his nonchalance, his air of finality, his authoritative assurance—these to my keen and practiced eyes were in significant contrast to a certain tenseness of line about his mouth and a slow paling of his olive skin.
He had crossed the path of Vaughn Steele; he had blocked the way of this Texas Ranger. If he had intelligence and remembered Steele’s fame, which surely he had, then he had some appreciation of what he had undertaken.
In that momentary lull my scrutiny of Sampson gathered an impression of the man’s intense curiosity.
Then Bud Snell, with a cough that broke the silence, shuffled a couple of steps toward the door.
“Hold on!” called Steele.
It was a bugle-call. It halted Snell as if it had been a bullet. He seemed to shrink.
“Sampson, I saw Snell attack Hoden,” said Steele, his voice still ringing. “What has the court to say to that?”
The moment for open rupture between Ranger Service and Sampson’s idea of law was at hand. Sampson showed not the slightest hesitation.
“The court has to say this: West of the Pecos we’ll not aid or abet or accept any Ranger Service. Steele, we don’t want you out here. Linrock doesn’t need you.”
“That’s a lie, Sampson,” retorted Steele. “I’ve a pocket full of letters from Linrock citizens, all begging for Ranger Service.”
Sampson turned white. The veins corded at his temples. He appeared about to burst into rage. He was at a loss for a quick reply.
Steele shook a long arm at the mayor.
“I need your help. You refuse. Now, I’ll work alone. This man Snell goes to Del Rio in irons.”
George Wright rushed up to the table. The blood showed black and thick in his face; his utterance was incoherent, his uncontrollable outbreak of temper seemed out of all proportion to any cause he should reasonably have had for anger.
Sampson shoved him back with a curse and warning glare.
“Where’s your warrant to arrest Snell?” shouted Sampson. “I won’t give you one. You can’t take him without a warrant.”
“I don’t need warrants to make arrests. Sampson, you’re ignorant of the power of Texas Rangers.”
“You’ll take Snell without papers?” bellowed Sampson.
“He goes to Del Rio to jail,” answered Steele.
“He won’t. You’ll pull none of your damned Ranger stunts out here. I’ll block you, Steele.”
That passionate reply of Sampson’s appeared to be the signal Steele had been waiting for.
He had helped on the crisis. I believed I saw how he wanted to force Sampson’s hand and show the town his stand.
Steele backed clear of everybody and like two swift flashes of light his guns leaped forth. He was transformed. My wish was fulfilled.
Here was Steele, the Ranger, in one of his lone lion stands. Not exactly alone either, for my hands itched for my guns!
“Men! I call on you all!” cried Steele, piercingly. “I call on you to witness the arrest of a criminal opposed by Sampson, mayor of Linrock. It will be recorded in the report sent to the Adjutant General at Austin. Sampson, I warn you—don’t follow up your threat.”
Sampson sat white with working jaw.
“Snell, come here,” ordered Steele.
The man went as if drawn and appeared to slink out of line with the guns. Steele’s cold gray glance held every eye in the hall.
“Take the handcuffs out of my pocket. This side. Go over to Gorsech with them. Gorsech, snap those irons on Snell’s wrists. Now, Snell, back here to the right of me.”
It was no wonder to me to see how instantly Steele was obeyed. He might have seen more danger in that moment than was manifest to me; on the other hand he might have wanted to drive home hard what he meant.
It was a critical moment for those who opposed him. There was death in the balance.
This Ranger, whose last resort was gun-play, had instantly taken the initiative, and his nerve chilled even me. Perhaps though, he read this crowd differently from me and saw that intimidation was his cue. I forgot I was not a spectator, but an ally.
“Sampson, you’ve shown your hand,” said Steele, in the deep voice that carried so far and held those who heard. “Any honest citizen of Linrock can now see what’s plain—yours is a damn poor hand!
“You’re going to hear me call a spade a spade. Your office is a farce. In the two years you’ve been mayor you’ve never arrested one rustler. Strange, when Linrock’s a nest for rustlers! You’ve never sent a prisoner to Del Rio, let alone to Austin. You have no jail.
“There have been nine murders since you took office, innumerable street fights and hold-ups. Not one arrest! But you have ordered arrests for trivial offenses, and have punished these out of all proportion.
“There h
ave been law-suits in your court—suits over water rights, cattle deals, property lines. Strange how in these law-suits, you or Wright or other men close to you were always involved! Stranger how it seems the law was stretched to favor your interests!”
Steele paused in his cold, ringing speech. In the silence, both outside and inside the hall, could be heard the deep breathing of agitated men.
I would have liked to search for possible satisfaction on the faces of any present, but I was concerned only with Sampson. I did not need to fear that any man might draw on Steele.
Never had I seen a crowd so sold, so stiff, so held! Sampson was indeed a study. Yet did he betray anything but rage at this interloper?
“Sampson, here’s plain talk for you and Linrock to digest,” went on Steele. “I don’t accuse you and your court of dishonesty. I say—strange! Law here has been a farce. The motive behind all this laxity isn’t plain to me—yet. But I call your hand!”
CHAPTER 3
SOUNDING THE TIMBER
When Steele left the hall, pushing Snell before him, making a lane through the crowd, it was not any longer possible to watch everybody.
Yet now he seemed to ignore the men behind him. Any friend of Snell’s among the vicious element might have pulled a gun. I wondered if Steele knew how I watched those men at his back—how fatal it would have been for any of them to make a significant move.
No—I decided that Steele trusted to the effect his boldness had created. It was this power to cow ordinary men that explained so many of his feats; just the same it was his keenness to read desperate men, his nerve to confront them, that made him great.
The crowd followed Steele and his captive down the middle of the main street and watched him secure a team and buckboard and drive off on the road to Sanderson.
Only then did that crowd appear to realize what had happened. Then my long-looked-for opportunity arrived. In the expression of silent men I found something which I had sought; from the hurried departure of others homeward I gathered import; on the husky, whispering lips of yet others I read words I needed to hear.
The other part of that crowd—to my surprise, the smaller part—was the roaring, threatening, complaining one.
Thus I segregated Linrock that was lawless from Linrock that wanted law, but for some reason not yet clear the latter did not dare to voice their choice.
How could Steele and I win them openly to our cause? If that could be done long before the year was up Linrock would be free of violence and Captain Neal’s Ranger Service saved to the State.
I went from place to place, corner to corner, bar to bar, watching, listening, recording; and not until long after sunset did I go out to the ranch.
The excitement had preceded me and speculation was rife. Hurrying through my supper, to get away from questions and to go on with my spying, I went out to the front of the house.
The evening was warm; the doors were open; and in the twilight the only lamps that had been lit were in Sampson’s big sitting room at the far end of the house. Neither Sampson nor Wright had come home to supper.
I would have given much to hear their talk right then, and certainly intended to try to hear it when they did come home.
When the buckboard drove up and they alighted I was well hidden in the bushes, so well screened that I could get but a fleeting glimpse of Sampson as he went in.
For all I could see, he appeared to be a calm and quiet man, intense beneath the surface, with an air of dignity under insult. My chance to observe Wright was lost.
They went into the house without speaking, and closed the door.
At the other end of the porch, close under a window, was an offset between step and wall, and there in the shadow I hid. If Sampson or Wright visited the girls that evening I wanted to hear what was said about Steele.
It seemed to me that it might be a good clue for me—the circumstance whether or not Diane Sampson was told the truth. So I waited there in the darkness with patience born of many hours of like duty.
Presently the small lamp was lit—I could tell the difference in light when the big one was burning—and I heard the swish of skirts.
“Something’s happened, surely, Sally,” I heard Miss Sampson say anxiously. “Papa just met me in the hall and didn’t speak. He seemed pale, worried.”
“Cousin George looked like a thundercloud,” said Sally. “For once, he didn’t try to kiss me. Something’s happened. Well, Diane, this has been a bad day for me, too.”
Plainly I heard Sally’s sigh, and the little pathetic sound brought me vividly out of my sordid business of suspicion and speculation. So she was sorry.
“Bad for you, too?” replied Diane in amused surprise. “Oh, I see—I forgot. You and Russ had it out.”
“Out? We fought like the very old deuce. I’ll never speak to him again.”
“So your little—affair with Russ is all over?”
“Yes.” Here she sighed again.
“Well, Sally, it began swiftly and it’s just as well short,” said Diane earnestly. “We know nothing at all of Russ.”
“Diane, after today I respect him in—in spite of things—even though he seems no good. I—I cared a lot, too.”
“My dear, your loves are like the summer flowers. I thought maybe your flirting with Russ might amount to something. Yet he seems so different now from what he was at first. It’s only occasionally I get the impression I had of him after that night he saved me from violence. He’s strange. Perhaps it all comes of his infatuation for you. He is in love with you. I’m afraid of what may come of it.”
“Diane, he’ll do something dreadful to George, mark my words,” whispered Sally. “He swore he would if George fooled around me any more.”
“Oh, dear. Sally, what can we do? These are wild men. George makes life miserable for me. And he teases you unmer…”
“I don’t call it teasing. George wants to spoon,” declared Sally emphatically. “He’d run after any woman.”
“A fine compliment to me, Cousin Sally,” laughed Diane.
“I don’t agree,” replied Sally stubbornly. “It’s so. He’s spoony. And when he’s been drinking and tries to kiss me, I hate him.”
“Sally, you look as if you’d rather like Russ to do something dreadful to George,” said Diane with a laugh that this time was only half mirth.
“Half of me would and half of me would not,” returned Sally. “But all of me would if I weren’t afraid of Russ. I’ve got a feeling—I don’t know what—something will happen between George and Russ some day.”
There were quick steps on the hall floor, steps I thought I recognized.
“Hello, girls!” sounded out Wright’s voice, minus its usual gaiety. Then ensued a pause that made me bring to mind a picture of Wright’s glum face.
“George, what’s the matter?” asked Diane presently. “I never saw papa as he is tonight, nor you so—so worried. Tell me, what has happened?”
“Well, Diane, we had a jar today,” replied Wright, with a blunt, expressive laugh.
“Jar?” echoed both the girls curiously.
“Jar? We had to submit to a damnable outrage,” added Wright passionately, as if the sound of his voice augmented his feeling. “Listen, girls. I’ll tell you all about it.”
He coughed, clearing his throat in a way that betrayed he had been drinking.
I sunk deeper in the shadow of my covert, and stiffening my muscles for a protracted spell of rigidity, prepared to listen with all acuteness and intensity.
Just one word from this Wright, inadvertently uttered in a moment of passion, might be the word Steele needed for his clue.
“It happened at the town hall,” began Wright rapidly. “Your father and Judge Owens and I were there in consultation with three ranchers from out of town. First we were disturbed by gunshots from somewhere, but not close at hand. Then we heard the loud voices outside.
“A crowd was coming down street. It stopped before the hall. Men came running in,
yelling. We thought there was a fire. Then that Ranger, Steele, stalked in, dragging a fellow by the name of Snell. We couldn’t tell what was wanted because of the uproar. Finally your father restored order.
“Steele had arrested Snell for alleged assault on a restaurant keeper named Hoden. It developed that Hoden didn’t accuse anybody, didn’t know who attacked him. Snell, being obviously innocent, was discharged. Then this—this gun fighting Ranger pulled his guns on the court and halted the proceedings.”
When Wright paused I plainly heard his intake of breath. Far indeed was he from calm.
“Steele held everybody in that hall in fear of death, and he began shouting his insults. Law was a farce in Linrock. The court was a farce. There was no law. Your father’s office as mayor should be impeached. He made arrests only for petty offenses. He was afraid of the rustlers, highwaymen, murderers. He was afraid or—he just let them alone. He used his office to cheat ranchers and cattlemen in law-suits.
“All of this Steele yelled for everyone to hear. A damnable outrage! Your father, Diane, insulted in his own court by a rowdy Ranger! Not only insulted, but threatened with death—two big guns thrust almost in his face!”
“Oh! How horrible!” cried Diane, in mingled distress and anger.
“Steele’s a Ranger. The Ranger Service wants to rule western Texas,” went on Wright. “These Rangers are all a low set, many of them worse than the outlaws they hunt. Some of them were outlaws and gun fighters before they became Rangers.
“This Steele is one of the worst of the lot. He’s keen, intelligent, smooth, and that makes him more to be feared. For he is to be feared. He wanted to kill. He meant to kill. If your father had made the least move Steele would have shot him. He’s a cold-nerved devil—the born gunman. My God, any instant I expected to see your father fall dead at my feet!”
“Oh, George! The—the unspeakable ruffian!” cried Diane, passionately.
“You see, Diane, this fellow Steele has failed here in Linrock. He’s been here weeks and done nothing. He must have got desperate. He’s infamous and he loves his name. He seeks notoriety. He made that play with Snell just for a chance to rant against your father. He tried to inflame all Linrock against him. That about law-suits was the worst! Damn him! He’ll make us enemies.”